


They Sound Almost the Same

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Heavy Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 18:13:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time stamp for the Chicago Verse, six years into owning their home. Sam hears a song.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Sound Almost the Same

**Author's Note:**

> First, I made myself cry. 
> 
> Second, omg.
> 
> Third, listen to the song before, during, and AFTER you read this. Think of Dean, age four, when you listen to this song. 
> 
> Four, I'M SORRY PLEASE HAVE TISSUES HANDY OKAY.
> 
> Song is here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=db4j9B4zB7A. It's "Don't Cry Daddy" by Elvis. (I was Elena as a kid.)
> 
> It's funny how Sammy and Daddy sound nearly the same. That's what the title stands for. Piece the rest together as you like.
> 
> (Okay, so I know shouting ilu in public is a little OOC but I needed some angst and this song and omg let's just go with it. XD)

A new bookstore opened up on 18th street, next to Sam’s favorite place for tacos. He knew he was in trouble when the owner offered him a teacher’s discount because he worked for a nonprofit. More than once—Sam will not admit to the exact number of times—a tall (but not as tall) man in a green military style coat was seen dragging Sam out of the bookstore, cussing and threatening several of Sam’s limbs.

Six years into owning their home and Sam still kept up with the network of hunters in Illinois. He never disclosed his address and was careful not to get either himself or his brother involved, but he could usually be reached via email, which he checked once a day. Dean had an email but Sam suspected he only used it for less than honorable things. Things he was happy not knowing.

The bookstore was a mix of current releases and the usual stock of genre fiction—all in either English or Spanish. There were some cassette tapes for sale at the register, which Dean had rifled through once or twice before apprehending Sam, but the store was strictly print material only.

What Sam enjoyed the most, besides the fact that it was a bookstore, was its tiny corner of rare books. Every book was opened and flipped through by him, no matter how musty or water damaged or chewed up. There were only a few times when he left with his hands itchy.

A soft spoken Puerto Rican gentleman owned the store. He was in his fifties, with salt and pepper hair and thin, wire glasses. He showed Sam each new shipment of antique books, hauling them out of crates especially for him. Eventually, Dean had to intervene and cut Sam off. Apparently a mortgage was a thing that needed to be paid _every_ month. And he hated that Dean took that older brother tone with him. So he made a little mistake balancing his check book, it wasn’t like the end of the world or anything (Sam had to laugh at that).

Mr. Pilar was a classical music enthusiast and usually played it during business hours. That changed when his ten year old granddaughter started being dropped off at the store, for him to watch while her mother was at work. Elena was a very quiet, studious little girl, who wore pressed dresses and pigtails that never had one hair out of place. She smoothed out her skirt when she sat down and always did as her grandfather asked her. Sam took to her quickly, and she to him.

“Mis bookworms,” Mr. Pilar would murmur, passing by their table on his way to the cash register to complete a sale.

Sometimes Elena would ask Sam a few questions, standard things children usually wanted to know: what do you do, where do you live, what are you reading?

When she asked him if he was married, he was stumped. He had no idea how to reply.

“Mr. Sam has a husband, mija,” Mr. Pilar informed her, handing her a copy of Stuart Little.

“Oh,” was her small reply. She touched the cover reverently then looked up at Sam. “Do you love him?”

Sam had to smile. If Dean knew this were happening he would never let Sam live it down. “Yeah, I do.”

“Okay. Read me this?”

 

When Elena was around, Mr. Pilar played Elvis records over the store intercom. She was an Elvis aficionado and had read every child-appropriate book about Elvis that her grandfather supplied her with. It upset her when her teacher told her—she told Sam one afternoon—that Elvis was not an acceptable choice for her American history assignment. When she countered that he even met a President when he was alive, she was still told to pick another person. As she searched for another person, Mr. Pilar put on an Elvis record he’d never played for her before, as a consolation.

Sam was finishing up a few emails—this was his new office, he had decided, and tacos were right next door so who could blame him—and keeping an eye on Elena as she scoured the biographies section. There were leftovers from Mrs. Martinez in the fridge but Sam actually felt like cooking. Dean was off of work in a few minutes; he had said he’d meet Sam at the park benches outside the museum so they could walk home together, “If your nerdy ass can be on time for once,” was what he’d added.

So when it happened, when the vinyl switched sides, Sam was prepared for yet another listen to Love me Tender or Teddy Bear.

What he got was unexpected.

Sam was not an Elvis connoisseur but he did know most of the major songs. This was not one of them.

This was a tinny track with an older Elvis singing.

It only took a little over thirty seconds for the lyrics to hit him.

Winded, Sam was paralyzed. He held onto his laptop but felt nothing. He could hear his older brother, four years old, saying those words to John. And all he could see was John sitting across from him, with those tired eyes and the slump in his shoulders after a night with Jack.

Over and over again all Sam could think of was four year old Dean tugging on John’s jacket sleeve.

All Dean needed was attention; reassurance from his daddy that everything would be okay. Had John given it to him? How many times had Dean seen John cry in those few days after?

“I tell him,” Sam wanted to say to John, who was still in front of him, looking directly at him. “I tell him every day.” Even when Dean brushed it off or didn’t respond or said, “Yeah, whatever, you too” Sam still told him. Every. Single. Day.

The song hit him square in the chest and did not let go.

He couldn’t listen to the end of it. He couldn’t stay where John was, not anymore. His hands moved on their own accord and he rushed out of the store, mumbling something to Mr. Pilar, rushing out. It was five past six and the sidewalks were busy. He had no idea how he navigated three blocks, how he crossed any street without getting hit.

 

Panting and out of breath, tightness in his chest, he saw his brother.

Sitting on a park bench, peeling an apple with his silver pocketknife, the one he called Shirley.

He was dirty and sweaty and tired, still wearing his coveralls from work, grease and oil stains outnumbering clean patches. Dean’s hair was getting lighter. His hands looked like they hurt. A lifetime of manual labor—digging up graves, chasing down shit, running everywhere without pause, without question—was showing. Sam noticed the empty bottles of Aleve, the heat pads, the cane that had slipped into the house quietly and was used when it got cold outside, when that damn knee acted up.

Cutting the apple into thick slices, Dean had a look of focused concentration. His tongue peeked out from his mouth; easy, easy, no need to go so fast.

 

In that moment, Sam could see a little boy.

“I love you,” Sam shouted from his spot, ten feet away. “I love you Dean.”

A crooked smile.

A tiny leer.

A scrunch of his nose.

A shake of his head.

A hand held out, piece of apple offered. That was all he needed.

Pushed forward by desperation and need and desire, Sam closed the distance between them. He was making good money now; he had been for a while. Things would have to change and they would figure it out, like they always did.

“Thank you,” Sam whispered, bending down and pulling Dean into a rough embrace. His cheek touched Dean’s ear. “Thank you so much.”

That four year old hadn’t given up and because he hadn’t, they had this.

Dean pat his back, giving a slight nod. He took in a deep breath and held onto Sam.

“Don’t cry Sammy.”


End file.
